Among Marbled Memorials
by MONANIK
Summary: "We should really be heading back now, Pidge-podge." "Call me that one more time and this cemetery will have one more gravestone to its name." Despite the threat, he gulped for all different reasons, because as terrifying as his companion was, nothing frightened him more than his current proximity to the mythical apparition of the graveyard-boy.
1. Where The Dead Sleep

In the cemetery across the road lives a boy my age.

I see him all the time, walking the burial grounds in chilling silence. I've not seen him outside the gates, I've never seen him leave, and I've never heard him speak to another person. He's always there—working day and night—but all the same he's much like a hallucination, a trick of a tired mind and too much coffee.

Nevertheless, there he is. Every day.

I'm usually tasked with completing some simple flower arrangements for a regular of ours. She's an old lady, widowed, and visits her late husband's grave weekly. Every time she does, she stops by the little flower-shop across the way for her arrangement. My bench points towards the French windows at the front of the shop, and through it I get a full-view of the main gate.

It was pure luck that gran was given this opportunity. At first—many years ago, when I first learned that she was offered a premise—I was hesitant and even defensive about the sudden change. Moving to a new place meant living someplace else, and above all: this one happened to be right in front of the massive iron gates of the town's largest cemetery—_Saint Adela's_. Whenever the wind blew its rusty bars rattled and the stones in the ground echoed its song in a haunting melody. I had _not _been particularly ecstatic about the move, certainly, but it meant better business, and with that—a better life. We were given a small apartment right above the shop where I was given my own room, looking out towards the looming gates. Still, I am happy.

Surely enough, the place started rolling in cash from day one. I guess people were in need of a conveniently close and relatively cheap flower shop with good arrangements for their beloved deceased.

At first, the change was unbearable, and I would wake every night in terror tremors. The nightmares which plagued my mind never gave ease, but eventually even I got used to it. As time went on, they became few and far in-between, and I could once again enjoy life in both waking and slumber.

I even took a curious liking to the place. Every day during break I'd walk along the outskirts of the burial grounds and view the glossy stones from behind the cold iron. On days when the sun hung low in a cloudy sky the midday glow cast delicate shadows on dead and living alike, and where the sun would break through the dew on finely-cut grass it sparkled ever so discreetly among well-cared for memorials in various shapes and sizes. Some went above and beyond and dedicated the delicacy of a winged angel or a saint for a memorial, and those have always been my favorite. They shine so nicely in the dim light, and the expressions on their faces are always graced with flowing shadows, all over smooth marble.

All in all, the cemetery is a beautiful place—if you manage to ignore the horror stories told about it.

Some claim the ghost of a deceased boy wanders the grounds, forever doomed to walk among the dead in the land of the living, locked up behind cold bars and among colder stones; as rooted to the ground he strolls as the winged angels hunched over the dead—incapable of taking flight—that crowd him in all directions.

When I first saw him, I was certain the stories had been true. He's tall and pale with eyes so dark they appear lifeless. His hair, an alcove black, shaggy and hastily cut just enough so he can see. His bangs are shorter, while the back remains longer, and it falls to his shoulders in uneven strings. Always dressed in blacks and greys and darks, and on his skin are countless bruises; marking the canvas in shades of blue and purple.

But further studying, days of walking along the gate on the wrong side, had led me to the conclusion that this was just a very lonely and quiet boy (man?) tending to his duties.

Still, I've never seen him leave the damned place. Not once, and I have first-class view of the gates. Perhaps he knows of some other exit, though my daily walks have proven that, too, to be false. There is no secret exit as far as I can tell—aside from a small emergency opening that leads out into the woods on the other side—and I'm annoyingly curious by nature. Whatever other option there might be does not seem logical to me. Why not just exit though the main gate? Does he, perhaps, live in the middle of the Dead Woods? To further complicate: the mentioned exit on the other end is heavily chained, no longer in usage it seems.

Regardless, it does not matter. He is a sight to behold, truly, whenever one's blessed with a glimpse. I do have duties to tend to, after all, and only get a chance to catch him during my strolls. Gran argues that he looks like an addict or a scavenger most of the time, I say he dresses and holds himself the way he does for a reason. Whatever the reason, I'm determined to find out.

Only too frightened to take a leap of faith.

_September 15__th__, 2017_

_In a sweet little flower shop_

…

"I still don't understand why you don't just go live with your pops downtown."

She sat idly on a high stool next to him, and on her lap she'd positioned her heavily adorned laptop—littered in stickers and markings.

"I can't just leave, Pidge."

"Why not?"

He sighed and closed his eyes against the lowering sun out the window. The flowers before him swayed gently in their plastic vase; put to life by the miniature fan on the table. Pidge's glasses reflected the golden light from the setting sun and its reflections danced across cut off stems and leaves, scattered about on the wooden surface, the remnants of vicious trimming and perfecting of what was to become a vase of forgotten flowers rotting on an equally rotten and forgotten grave.

"Because my gran needs me." He tried explaining, "I can't just walk off." He took a deep breath, "She wouldn't stop me, but—"

"Well, then?"

"Let me _finish!_"

His brows furrowed in the most intense scowl, though he tried to tone down the sudden harshness of his tone. _It's not her fault, _he tried reminding his rising temperament. As the day wore on, he felt more and more disassociated from his surroundings. Something heavy loomed above his head, he could feel it prickling his skin.

"Like I was about to say—before I was _rudely interrupted_" He started with a huff and a narrowed look thrown her way, "She would never stop me because she's stubborn and suffers through her shit alone rather than asking for help."

"Sounds like someone I know."

He ignored her sly comment and continued:

"And that's why I can't leave."

Adjusting the lilies that had moved out of place as he spoke helped calm his restless mind. He turned off the fan to prevent further complications. The sun was slowly descending, though it remained high enough to cast warm light over the gravestones in the distance. He took a deep breath.

"And besides…" his voice wavered as he took in the sight before him, the expanse of cold memorials which contrasted the warm light and stood as both a threat and a bittersweet reminder of how fleeting everything is, every feeling and thought.

"It's almost… beautiful…" he whispered to the gate outside.

She was watching him steadily, so much he could tell, though his gaze remained transfixed on the open view.

After a moment, she spoke up:

"It's not the graveyard you find beautiful, it's the cryptid boy that wanders its grounds." She stated with a smirk and a smugness reserved for every time she knew she was right.

He gawked at her and sputtered in response.

"We all know it's true—"

"No! No, no, nope! Not true!" he tried defending himself, "Nuh, uh. Never!"

Puffing his chest out he pouted in indignance, abandoned lilies stood in a vase on the table as his arms were suddenly very occupied with crossing each other for emphasis. Pidge just hopped off her stool with a bounce in her step and shoved the laptop under her arm before she ambled over to where a bowl of outdated candy stood on the counter, mostly for the unfortunate kids that are forcefully dragged through what to a child can only be described as absolute hell. She reached up and grabbed a handful before walking around and leaving her laptop in the drawers, clapping her hand to rid them of invisible dust.

"Alright. Let's do this." She commanded and put both hands on her hips as she made a b-line for his workbench.

"Do what?" he echoed.

An impressive eyeroll accompanied a very rehearsed heave of her chest and a very sour twist of her delicate lips.

"Let's go find your cryptid boyfriend. Duh!" she clarified with uncanny annoyance.

"Wait, what?"

"You said you haven't actually ever met him or seen him up close, no?" she asked, "So let's go find him, properly, and see what he's all about."

His expression remained blank, eyes practically bugging out of his head where they flicked from side to side, his brain pushing its limits to find a logical pattern in their conversation.

"I—" his mouth moved, "I-I can't just walk up to him! Are you insane?!"

Nimble fingers worked open the stubborn sweet, and as it disappeared into her mouth with an audible 'plop', she quirked an eyebrow—eyes slanted.

"So, what do you suggest instead?" she mumbled around the sticky caramel, "Continue watching him through the gates of a haunted cemetery until you eventually wilt and rot like the flowers you so ungraciously tend to on a daily?"

With her friend successfully stumped, she took the initiative; with shoulders straight, and a huff of finality, she turned on her heel and walked towards the glass entrance.

"Now, then." She said, "Care to join? Or should I steal him for myself?"

_Septemper 15__th__, 2017_

_Somewhere in a cemetery_

…

"It's getting dark, Pidge." He whined for the millionth time, "And cold."

A shudder accompanied the statement—albeit somewhat exaggerated for effect. She didn't hook.

"Quit crying like an infant and use all that excessive energy on finding your prince charming instead."

"Why are you so insistent on finding him _for me?_ I never thought of you as very interested in my lovelife—or lack thereof." He muttered sourly.

Her head snapped back towards him for a second, long enough to throw him a dirty glare behind the flare in her glasses, only to then turn back to the golden road before them. The sun was well on its way down, now lurking between the looming silhouettes of the trees and memorials around them. The gravel road they walked upon drowned in sunny rays, and the leaves which littered it were painting a spectacular picture of early fall.

Still, he felt the unease of the day crawl closer and closer, until the skin below his fingernails itched and the twitching of his eyelids gave way to the prickle of tears.

"We should really be heading back now, Pidge-podge."

"Call me that one more time and this cemetery will have one more gravestone to its name."

Despite the threat, he gulped for all different reasons, because as terrifying as his companion was, nothing frightened him more than his current proximity to the mythical apparition of the graveyard-boy.

He was turned towards the duo, with his eyes squinting against the sunset and a hand on his forehead to get a proper look at the visitors. In his left hand he held a wooden rake, and at his feet was a pile of freshly raked leaves. His long limbs were clad in all-black, down the tips of his fingers; encased in leather gloves. The alcove black of his hair had been tied up loosely in a short ponytail. Stray strands twirled and danced in the wind—some wrapped delicately around high cheekbones and a long, pale neck.

He gulped again.

"Aren't you the flower-boy?" the grave-boy asked, to which Pidge turned sharply, but only to witness her friend's desperate fumbling.

"He is." She shouted back to him.

"What are you two doing here?" he asked, seemingly annoyed by their sudden presence, "If you're here for some childish challenge or something you better fuck off, no ghosts here." He barked and then turned back to the task at hand, a frown on his lips.

"Talk to him!" came a whisper by his side, accompanied by a pinch to his waist. He yelped in surprise and jumped forward, only to be pushed further—closer to the black-clad worker.

His sudden proximity made the boy raise his head once more, only this time he had a clearer image—a closer look. He was surprisingly… beautiful. His eyes, which seemed black and all-consuming before, were now a swirling galaxy of lavender. It was like gazing into the dawn of day, so vibrantly purple it seemed imaginary. But it wasn't. The boy before him was very much real, and very much displeased with his sudden closeness.

"What do you want?" he spit out, "Looking for the Cryptid of Adela's?" he asked, venom between each bite of a vicious tongue, "I'm afraid there's nothing neither interesting nor cryptid about me." he finished.

He could do nothing but stare, stare and stare at the expanse of pale, pale skin—graced with a few beauty marks in the most unexpected places, like one right below his left eye. Though despite his skin's shine and perfection, a single scar rippled across its surface—a rich, muddy-pink color. It rose from the sharp edge of his jaw and narrowed out into a fine tip just below his right eye.

"No, we, uh—" _another gulp, _"We-we were just on…a walk." He barely pushed out, "Yeah. A walk." He added, as if to convince himself that that was, in fact, his honest truth.

All he got in return was a stern look of displeasure, and a deepening of thick brows.

"Suit yourself." He hissed and turned back to his leaves.

Lance, however, was no quitter.

He cleared his throat, perhaps a little too loudly, and then tapped the sufficiently annoyed worker on the shoulder. He stopped mid-rake and stared off into the distance—towards the gate—for a second, as if contemplating whether wrapping those long, slim fingers around Lance's tan throat was the best course of action.

Luckily for the nervous Cuban, he seemed to think better of it, and instead stood up straight once more to meet his eye. His lips twisted up into a painfully professional, twitchy smile.

"_What." _He drew out in a breath between clenched teeth.

"Could you tell me your name?" he asked, hands fiddling with the hem of his jacket.

"'And why do you wanna know my name?"

"Uh…"

Somewhere behind him, a loud slap on firm skin indicated that Pidge quite possibly just face-palmed herself into a severe concussion. A very muffled and yet a very loud "_How eloquent._" Followed. Lance ignored it and swallowed thickly, dumbly.

"Well, uh—"

"What? Are you retarded? Mute?"

"No, I—"

"Then spit it out!" he hissed, eyes dangerous slits, "I ain't got all day! Some of us have work to tend to!" he yelled and swung his arms out towards the heap of leaves still at their feet.

Then, something ugly boiled hot in the pit of his gut.

"What the hell is your problem?!" he yelled back, hands now on his hips, "I was just gonna ask for your name, but I guess I better not! Maybe I should start calling you the _the Ghost of Adela's_ like everyone else, freak!"

A heavy silence fell atop them, and from somewhere behind him he could hear the shuffling of Pidge's boots against the fine-graveled road. The wind whistled between treetops and gravestones, and the sun shone its last rays over the land where dead and living roam. Lance desperately wanted to swallow his words—or have the ground below his feet swallow him and add him to its collection. Either worked.

In the silence, the boy spoke:

"Keith." He whispered, but to his ears it sounded more like a shout, "It's Keith. And if you ever, _ever, _call me anything other than that again I'll cut your fucking cock off and shove it down your throat, _flowerboy."_

As its warm rays finally gave way, and the cemetery fell into darkness, and the streetlamps around them lit up in a dim glow, the dark-clad boy turned and walked away with the weight of threat in each step. As he did, he flung the heavy rake to the side and it landed with a loud 'clank' against the fine marble of someone's memorial.

A looming feeling of dread crept up his spine.


	2. The Devil's Hour

_I stand at a crossroad with a dead crow in bloodied palms. Its black feathers gleam with spilled blood so dark it blends well with the ivory softness. Its ragged breaths feel as painful as they seem, and from its abdomen protrudes the end of an arrow which lay burrowed in its flesh. _

_The crow in my palms tries in vain to shriek and fly away. With the flutter of weakened wings, it attempts one last time to take flight from unfamiliar hands; hands which hold onto the wounded animal like a lifeline._

_I run as fast as my legs can carry, and in the reflection of clear waters I spot silken-blond hair, long and braided, and a body too small and pale to be what I'm familiar with. Tears track the red puffiness of pink cheeks as I carry myself and my wounded companion through a thin clearing of woods. Around us floats a misty fog—so refreshing and cold against the heat of my bloodied palms._

_I beg and plead, I hope and believe, that it will not be too late. _

_And then, I wake up._

_September 29__th__, 2017_

_By a fountain in a garden_

…

An old friend of his lives just some 20 minutes by bike in a spectacular mansion some way off the main road in a clearing in the forest. It's a beautiful building; four stories high, built in dark brick and stone. Its pointed roofs and rounded archways give it a gothic, aged look. In front of the structure stands a tall and mighty statue in bronze and iron, the portrayal of a fine-looking young woman carrying much similar features to her now adult daughter. Her thick curls fall past a firm waist, and her slender fingers lay entwined with each other over her stomach. In one hand is a flower; four petals slim down to a thin, delicate stem. It was Allura's mother's favorite type flower in life. Now she stands in front of the big mansion, carved in the cold, as a reminder of her undying presence, her spirit and strength. Allura told him once that her mother had died in illness. What it was she never said, only shrugged and changed the subject. He always assumed it must have been because it was a traumatizing memory. Now he believes there's more to it…

In their backyard, centered and elegant, a large and beautiful fountain stands in sleek marble, with a cobbled bottom. From the crystalline water sprouts a beautiful siren with a hefty fish in her hands twice the size of her head. Out its mouth pours a gentle stream of water that which glistens so lovely in the sunlight.

Above them the sun shines down on white outdoor furniture and the wide tree tops above their heads, casting a beautiful pattern of dancing shadows on the lounging group of friends out drinking in the beautiful weather. The gentle trickle of water eases his mind as he listens to his friends' blabbering.

He listens calmly, in absolute serenity, as his silver-haired friend rambles on.

"I told him not to do such things in front of my father, but no! He just wouldn't listen!"

She tucks stray strands of silver behind her ears in dramatic frustration. The gold of her hoops reflects the sun with every twitchy movement of her head. Lately, she's been seeing this man some years older than her, and his apparent lack of professionalism when it comes to her seems to bother her more than what's necessary. Or… so she says. Lance on the other hand has been the victim of her never-ending blabber on how amazing he is in bed, how strong his arms are and how good a kisser he is. He can't even blame her; Lotor is too tall and too handsome for his own good. Sly in every way, but very handsome. _Did he mention rich?_

"Mmh, hmm. Such a problem." Pidge hums sarcastically from her scrunched up position. Her fingers dance professionally over the scrappy Nintendo in her hands; its chapped, bright red surface reflects its colors in the rim of her round glasses.

Allura seems unphased by her friend's disinterest in her not-so-problematic problems:

"It is!" she insists, pouting. Her very finely plucked brows—as white as her hair—furrow in irritation.

Between them, Hunk fidgets nervously with the porcelain cup in his hands—one out of a set of many sent to Allura from a relative overseas.

Allura, or more specifically her father, have been rich since birth. A well-off family living in a fine home. She owns three fat mice and a beautiful, white-maned horse. Her father inherited a very successful business, one mostly active overseas but somewhat popular globally, and that seems to be the main source of their income. She claims there's more to it, like decades of wealthy inheritance, and Lance feels it's likely so. Considering.

"I think he's just very affectionate." Hunk finally tries, big hands fiddling nervously with the swirly handle barely the size of his thumb.

Lance chuckles from his end of the round table, fingernail scratching insistently on a smudge of ketchup long-since dried onto the surface. Their heads all turn towards him as he speaks.

"At least you have someone, 'Llura." He says and takes a bite of a sickeningly sweet lemon-cupcake. The orange frosting sticks to the top of his lips like a mustache.

Silence falls, the only sound audible being Lance's obnoxious munching.

Pidge is first to speak.

"Ah… yes… Lance here has some crush-related issues." She says, almost as though in pain—judging by the sour expression.

The too-sweet cupcake lodges itself in an airway as he flails fruitlessly in response.

"I do not!" he shouts once the pastry is no longer suffocating him.

"Sorry buddy but I have to agree with Pidge on this one. You've been talking about him non stop for the past two weeks." His _best friend_ agrees, big hand coming up to scratch a puffy cheek.

"Only because he's so goddman annoying!" he tries.

"You tell 'em, Pidge! You were there when we first met him! He was a total asshole!" he drags on.

Alas, the smug little gremlin only shrugs and grins in response.

"And yet you keep on searching for him and go out of your way to bother him every day. On your breaks, none the less." She says, then adds: "We all know you're a sucker for a pretty face."

On the other end, Allura pipes up, now sufficiently interested. Much like Lance, she's weak to beautiful boys.

"Wait, wait. Who is this boy? Pretty face?" she asks, gaze flickering between the three of them excitedly, her body leaning over the edge of the table. The movement accentuates the curve of her breasts, and Lance is forced to look away; face a heated mess.

"It's not every day we hear you admit that, Pidge." She says, genuinely surprised. They all know Pidge is utterly uninterested in anything not technological or mechanic, so for her to admit defeat is a rarity in itself. To make matters worse, this is about one of _Lance's _sources of interest, and Lance is known for flirting with anything on two legs.

"Well, I do have eyes and the guy's clearly attractive. All long legs and pretty eyes." She admits—face a calm, stoic indifference.

"He works at the cemetery across their shop. I've not actually seen him myself." Hunk informs their wide-eyed friend. But her expression falls, and she leans back in her chair.

"At the cemetery?" she asks, eyebrows deeply furrowed again, only this time in valid concern, "How old is he…?"

"Not much older than Lance, I wouldn't say. That, or he's got a mad impressive skin routine." She tells her, eyes not once wandering away from the blue-tinted screen in her hands.

Flashes of color change the hue of the flare in her glasses for a moment before a victorious melody signs through the device. The corner of her lips twitch in response.

He sighs and rubs his eyes in absolute defeat. No point in withholding information now that his oh-so-considerate friends have spilled everything. _That everything not being much to begin with. Still_—!

"From what I've understood he's been working there for a while. I don't know why but it is my personal goal to find out!" he proudly proclaims to the group, chest puffed out and hand clenched into a determined fist.

"Uh, huh. And _that's _why you're not letting him breathe." The four-eyed gremlin taunted on.

Hunk chuckles from his seat next to her, a hand over his large belly.

"Hah! She's right. You've been visiting him daily to…" but he trails off, expression falling, "What exactly _do_ you do?" he asks anxiously.

"Bet he chases him around the cemetery." Allura supplies. They all giggle.

But there's something in her voice that Lance catches onto for a brief moment, a fraction of a second. It's subtle, but he's known this woman for long enough to realize when she's withholding something. He brushed it off in favor of protecting his own ass.

"I'd say he's more likely to pester him by pulling on his hair or lingering around him as he works." Pidge snorts.

With that, the three of them erupt into laughter. Pidge's eyes finally leave the screen only to be shut closed in a hearty chuckle.

"Ha ha, guys. Very funny." he deadpans in the commotion, words falling on laughter-deaf ears, "I'm not… OK—I _am _bothering him on purpose—"

More laughter follows. He sighs.

"But not _that _purpose! He's just very mysterious and I'm a curious soul." He finishes and glares daggers at the trio as their laughter finally settles and dies out.

"Yeah, that's called having a crush. Literally no one else thinks he's interesting enough to chase around a cemetery." Her eyes fall back down to the screen in her hands, though on her lips remains a bright and wide grin. Strands of muddy-brown hair fall in front of serpent-green eyes. If it hadn't been for her lack of interest in anything human, and her overall prickly nature, Lance would perhaps dare to agree that she's a natural beauty—one you cannot help but to notice.

_Snake. _

"I think he sounds interesting, for sure, but knowing you I have to say that there's definitely some ulterior motive. You hate cemeteries and graveyards!" Allura takes a delicate sip of her cold tea, her cheeks pink from laughter, and her eyes fixated on him as though he were on display.

"Anything remotely scary, really." Hunk adds.

"Should'a seen him when we first went in together to look for his cryptid boyfriend—"

"Hey!"

They laugh again.

"C'mon, now. Let's not pick on him _too much_." Hunk tries in vain to defend him, his own lips still stretched into a smile and his eyes shut in delight. Nonetheless, Lance is satisfied.

"Thank you, Hunk!" he squeaks, all dignity lost.

Allura, however—always the enthusiastic pragmatic—doesn't stop there. Before she has so much as structured the sentence in her brain, Lance can already tell her exact thought. It sits clear as day, right there on her fine features. A pair of painted lips quirk into a very optimistic expression, and she supports herself once again on the table edge; thin arms crossed over each other.

"I think what Lance needs is a healthy push in the right direction!" she practically squeals, proud in her revelation.

"No!" he shouts, "Not happening!" he insists, crossing his arms and leaning as far away from the trio's inquisitive stares as possible. Alas, they don't give in. His favorite snake speaks again, as venomous as always:

"Uh, yes. You can't go on like this forever."

And the damned little thing has a point, that much he must admit. Not out loud, of course, only to the few residents in his own head. He fixes her with one of his killer stares. Well, he _thinks _they're killer… right? Right.

"Says who?" he grunts and feels the twitch in the muscles around his nose.

"Says I." she throws back, steely in her resolution, "You're gonna go there today, apologize for being a pest and at least attempt to befriend him. You can do that much, can't you?"

Birds chirp a happy tune above the tenseness among them, unaware of the building fear in Lance's chest, uncaring of the human sanity. Still, he finds their song a reassurance as he speaks.

"…fine." He yields under her stare, "But only because I wanna know why he works where he works! That's it!" he reassures them, or perhaps himself.

"Whatever you say, buddy." She says, almost like she read his mind.

From her seat at the table, Allura's gaze follows his movements in thought. He still doesn't ask her about it.

_October 1__st__, 2017_

_In front of a lone memorial_

…

He stands there, in front of the forgotten grave, and contemplates what the reason for this fellow's abandonment could be. _Was he an evil man? Are there no relatives to mourn him? Have they gone and died?_

He reads the dusty, marbled gravestone out loud:

_In memory of a father, a fighter and a friend_

_Willhem Grey_

_1892 – 1988_

A cold wind blows by, rustling the dry leaves on the ground around him. They rise in a delicate swirl of colors before scattering around his feet. He shivers and tugs his jacket closer, shields himself from more than just the wind, he thinks.

Then, from somewhere behind him, as though born from thin air, comes a voice; loud and clear in the haunting silence.

"Why do you keep coming?" asks the tired, lifeless voice. Drained at this point.

He turns and meets eye-to-eye with the cemetery boy. His raven hair is again tied up in a loose ponytail and his long bangs shield his eyes; eyes which are slanted in distrust, annoyance and—perhaps, if you squint—something like grief. Like his question held depths far greater than he lets on.

For the past few weeks he's been visiting the cemetery daily in hopes of finding the cryptid attendant. He doesn't know why, doesn't understand what drives him out among the memorials every day in a never-ending loop. Sometimes he lies awake at night and thinks that he is, perhaps, enchanted. _Cursed? Tricked? _

But then he ventures out to the cemetery the next morning again, and he finds the boy, and they bicker, and fight, and he'll remain for so long that his gran becomes angry with him—but he still stays. He still returns. He jokes about his hair, and he makes fun of him, and he follows him around just to see how long he can keep it up before Keith's professionalism snaps and he starts chasing him around the lot.

Then, when he exits the enchantment of the memorial grounds, he thinks to himself that the only enchantment on his soul comes in the form of beautiful eyes and an endless expanse of pale, pale skin. And a torturous incapability to come close to said skin.

Lance has never had to work this hard to at least get someone to befriend him. Sure, his never-ending flirting rarely pays off for more than a kiss and some heated fondling, but if nothing else then he'll at least always make a new friend. He's good at that, he thought. Well, was; until he met Keith.

The undying fury in his eyes, that restless fire in the swirl of a violet galaxy is what keeps him there—rooted to the mourning ground. It's what motivates him to fight, to bicker and annoy, because only so will he gain his attention. Only so will he look into those burning flames and feel their heat sear his flesh and blood from within. Only so will he feel the swell of his heart as it thumps loudly against his chest.

He wants to learn, to see, to taste, to kiss, to listen and hear. He wants _more _of him. So much more. He wants to know what makes him tick, what makes him flush in ecstasy and happiness, what his smile looks like and his laugh tastes like, what his lips sound like.

So, he returns, and he fumbles over his words and he shouts in mock offense and he sighs and sighs and sighs and rolls his eyes—

And now they're face to face again, only this time his reaction is not to chase him around the place with his rake firmly gripped in gloved hands.

So Lance stumbles and falls and what he means to say is something like _'I'm here because your stupid face is annoying!', _like so many times before, but what he says instead is:

"Because I think you're beautiful."

Silence falls. The howling of cold wind echoes in the space between them. The rake in Keith's hands rustles some leaves as his hand, his arm, his body flinches in surprise. Violet eyes never leave him. They burrow deep into his soul and leave nothing on display. For a moment, he thinks he's about to get hit or stabbed—as so many times before—but Keith only steps closer, cautiously, and lowers the rake to lie beside them as he speaks:

"You've been bothering me all this time because you… have the hots for me? What type of flirting is that?" he asks, an eyebrow raised, "What are you—five? Gon' start tugging my hair?"

He stands so close that Lance can feel the heat of those ablaze universes as they track the growth of a warm flush over tan skin. He can feel it, burning his cheeks a crimson as red as the leaves around their feet. He prays his complexion hides at least a part of it.

And then, to further his agony, the devil _smirks._

_He smirked!— _he manages to think before a gloved hand flies up to those quirked lips and two rows of white teeth bite down on black leather to tear it off. The action sends shockwaves down Lance's spine, and the bastard _knows it._ He knows it by the look in those eyes, by the twitch of those perfect eyebrows, and by the stretch of those kissable lips.

With finality and smugness in his movement, he stretches out a pale hand towards him.

"I think we got off to a bad start." He says.

Lance stares at the paleness as it's wrapped in sun kissed fingers. The coral blue of his nails glistens in the sunlight, exposing him.

"Nail polish?" Keith asks, lips spreading into a full-on grin. Lance fights the heat pooling below his navel.

"Sh—shut up!" he stutters and watches as those long, pale fingers retreat, "I like it…" he mumbles to the ground in what's left of his defense against the mythical boy.

Keith tugs on the black leather again, and once more that soft skin is hidden from view. Lance's eyes retreat to his face, but they don't miss the subtle tilt of a long neck in their ascent.

Keith's smile doesn't waver as he speaks:

"Don't get your hopes up, _lover boy._ It takes more than ocean eyes and long legs to lure me in."

And with those parting words he is left to watch a pair of broad shoulders as they disappear into the fog like a phantom, the ghost of a memory. A lone soul in a crowded cemetery.

Much like Mr. Grey below his feet, he thinks, and sighs at the sky one more time.

_October 3__rd__, 2017_

_On a graveled road between gravestones_

…

He stands and watches him as he works diligently on the memorial in front of him. His nimble, gentle fingers work skillfully in removing dirt and pests from the black marble. He stops at the round image for a moment—observes the writing and the picture—before brushing it clean as well. Around him lay all sorts of tools, most of which are for gardening.

Lance stands and thinks about how Keith not only never leaves, but never wears any type of uniform either.

"Hey, buddy." He says, hands in his pocket.

A head of ivory hair stops and turns towards him, "What now."

"Aren't you, like, gonna tell me about yourself?" he asks and squints against the low-hanging sun. It was getting late and he should leave, but _something_ was keeping him there. _Something _which he couldn't name, or explain.

Lance noticed something bout Keith during his consistent visits. The boy was downright frightening at times. He now fully understands the rumors going around, both about Keith and about the grounds he patrols on a daily.

As night falls, and shadows begin to loom, something in Keith changes. Not in action, perhaps, but his face turns cold and those burning eyes dull. His expressions become few and far in-between, and the shadows on his face give him an eerie look.

The black-clad lad stands up and turns towards him, dusting off his knees and clothes in the process before meeting his gaze.

"What exactly do you wanna know?" he asks, tone clipped.

He clearly doesn't like talking about himself much. Still, Lance presses on, shuffling his feet in a growing nervousness.

"Well…" he begins, "You're very… interesting… in general, so… anything, really." He says and waits for a reaction. When he's given none, he continues: "Like your favorite food, or how come you work at a cemetery, or where you live. Shit like that… shit friends know about each other."

Keith only turns and starts walking towards one of the supply sheds, rubbing his hands so as to clean them of excess dirt, and talking as he goes:

"So we're friends now? Is that it?" he asks.

"I mean… yes? I thought we— we're _not?_"

He stops and fiddles with the gloves in his now naked hands. As dusk is drawing nearer, the chirping of the cicadas becomes more prominent when the flutter of crow wings travels through the sky, like they're all fleeing from something whenever night begins to fall. They become restless, just like humans. And with dusk comes the switch in Keith, the haunting one he's learned comes creeping at night.

As he turns to look at him, the shadows fall over his face, and the streetlamps here and there along the graveled paths lit up as though on que, one after the other. Their low, yellow glow pales his skin and removes the violet streaks in his eyes. Two voids stare into him, unmoving, as Keith speaks to the silence:

"I was never and will never be your friend." He says, then turns fully and starts walking towards him. Slowly.

He backs away on instinct with his heart in his throat; loud and thudding harshly against cold skin. He can feel the tremble in his bones; in the joints of his fingers and the lines of his jaw. Never before has he felt this frightened.

When he's a breath away from him, and those blackened voids stare right at him, he whispers to him:

"What are you trying to do, McClain?"

All blood rushes to his lungs, and his nails bite down into the flesh of his palms until he can feel the prickle of blood run down clenched fists. His body shudders in shock.

_I never told him my surname._

In the darkness of dusk, he desperately reaches for some distant memory, something that might have given away his identity, some sense of sensibility to hold on to—logic. Had he or someone said his surname outside the shop, close enough to the gate for Keith to hear? _No, that can't be. _He reached further, desperately; Does the sign above the shop read their name? _Not that either, for it reads "Abuela's Garden". _

Then, a smile grew on Keith's face, and the darkness fell just an inch. He backed away, a sinister grin on handsome features, then turned to walk away. Like a ghost he faded in the distance, but his voice carried on:

"Don't meddle where you have no right to nose, McClain." He said, voice growing distant, an echo the further he disappeared, "Curiosity killed the cat." Came the faint whisper, bouncing between gravestones and trees until it reached his ringing ears.

He snapped out of his paralysis, and with adrenaline coursing through his veins he bolted out of the burial grounds—not once looking back.

He ran and ran until he hinted the warm glow of his grandma's shop in the distance and didn't stop until he crashed through the French door. Didn't breathe until he was safe in his room again.

_October 3__rd__, 2017_

_In the safety of a room_

…

Hours passed before I heard a faint knock on my door. I startled, but quickly gathered my bearings. _Don't be silly, _I thought. Still desperately clutching onto the belief that what I'd lived in the cemetery had been nothing but an exaggeration of my fictive imagination. I knew my endless comics, fantasy books and videos on ancient mythology would eventually catch up to me.

A very hesitant voice called my name through the thick wooden door, and I—in turn—rasped for grandma to come in, hiding the lingering horror on my features to the best of my abilities. Of course, it did not work.

The second she entered she knew something was terribly wrong.

"**Oh, my flower, what's wrong? Are you feeling ill?"** she asked me, a crease of worry between her bushy brows.

My gran is a very old and delicate but stubborn and strong-willed lady. I thought the move out would break her and leave her weak. After all, a re-build of one's business at that age, in a completely different location _and_ from scratch, burned out even the most youthful of entrepreneurs. But not my gran. My gran, she held on for dear life, and did not once complain about her situation. Every time I asked, she would smile and say: _**No joy is born in sorrow and anger. **_So, we willed on, and pushed through. Together.

Now, sitting on one end of my bed, she carries her age in her eyes as she looks at me. For the first time in my life I can see what I'd been blind to for so long. My gran was very old, and I'd always refused to acknowledge it.

Still, I smiled at her, and willed the tears away from surfacing.

"I'm perfectly fine! Splendid!"

But the croak in my throat gave me away, and the dam broke. Tears flowed down my cheeks, but my gran only came closer; wrapped her arms around my quivering shoulders and whispered reassurances in my ear. A bony hand came to scratch the top of a chestnut head.

"What do you worry about so deeply? What weighs your mind? Speak to me." She said and pushed me away, her blue eyes finding mine and holding them there as she spoke.

I swallowed, then told her what's been weighing me since we moved out to the flower shop. My gran was dying, and there was nothing I could do about it. Perhaps the constant visits to the cemetery had been messing with my psyche, but the one woman I loved more than anyone here on this forsaken Earth was slipping out from between my fingers, and I was powerless. _That _was a fact. I hadn't had the balls to confess something so silly to Pidge, so I told her half the truth, because I _couldn't _leave. I _didn't want _to leave. I wanted—no, prayed—that my last days with gran would be right here by her side. To lose her would be to lose my footing, to lose my stability and protection.

When I was still a little boy, my gran meant the world to me. She was always there, from the very first day, and held my hand as she walked me through life. She was the first to learn about my dreams of becoming a pilot, the first to hear about my crush on a girl in third grade, and the first to know that I liked kissing boys, too. She was my stability, the only person to stand up for me when my family turned against me. When I was thrown out on the streets, she was the only one to follow—to show me the way onwards. I lost my shot at pilot school, and at college in general, but my gran kept on saying how she would to everything it took for me to be happy. I never believed her. I never thought it possible. What's happiness when you cannot reach your dreams? When the one thing you desire above all else is dead to your reality? So, I gave up, and started working on her shop with her full time.

Still, she never gave up. Even when _I _did. She held my hand tight and kept on telling me stories of witches and mermaids and vampires. Of adventurous travelers finding a home with fairies and of brave warriors who fought almighty beasts of the sky. And through it all her voice never wavered, her gaze never fell, and her posture never slumped.

But every now and then, when she thought I wasn't looking, I hinted the exhaustion in her face; the dust collecting in the creases of her skin. My gran was dying, and the thought gave me night-terrors for a long time. I was terrified of losing her, of losing the one thing I could call home—safety. When I'd ran to the glow of the shop I hadn't been running towards the flowers, or the retro décor, or the glass-walls; I'd been running towards her.

When I finished my rambling, she took a hold of my hands and looked into my eyes.

"You have nothing to fear. Yes, I am old, but I will always watch over you. I will always be there for you. Even when I'm six feet underground, and my skin falls off, and my bones rot, I will stay by your side to be your guiding light. And whenever you feel hopeless, scared, lonely—call out to me. I will always, always be here for you, **my flower.**" She said.

I couldn't stop my tears, so I let them run until gran's sleeve was too wet to do much anymore. I let them run and run until the throbbing behind my eyelids ceased and I fell into blissful darkness.

_October 3__rd__, 2017_

_In a very dark room_

…

He woke with a start.

Sweat made the thin fabric of his shirt cling to his body, and the tremors coursing through him brought his attention to the open window at the other end of the room. The low, weak glow from the moon was the only light in the room, spilling in through the small opening. Hinges creaked as the wind blew the thick, old windows. They cracked and groaned with every move, and the white curtains in front fluttered gently. But what caught his attention, what had woken him from his sweaty dream, was a shadow on the windowsill.

A black cat, with fur so well-tended it reflected the moonlight outside, sat perched on the white sill—its eyes glowing in the dim light a bright yellow. Its tail swung lazily from side to side, but other than that it remained completely still. Watching him.

He swallowed around the lump in his throat and willed his erratic heart to calm. _It was just a cat, for Christ's sake! _He tried convincing himself and got up from the bed. Hesitantly, he made his way to the window, every nerve on edge. When he approached the gracious creature, it meowed at him—flashing rows of sharp canines—but overall it didn't seem threatened by his presence. Shakily, he reached out a hand towards the adorable thing, but the second he did it stood and turned and swiftly jumped out the window and down onto the sign hanging just below. It meowed at him once more, as if taunting him—calling him—before continuing its descent.

His eyes caught onto the glimmer of the iron bars down the road, the looming threat of the cemetery gate…

Which stood open…

Its doors swaying gently in the breeze…

Something about it called to him, peaked his interest—perhaps—and he turned to change into something more fitting for the chilling weather. In a haste he grabbed a backpack and stuffed it with just a handful of essentials. Why, he didn't quite know, but something was telling him to pack. To be ready.

As quietly as humanly possible he made his way down the creaky, spiral stairs and out the front door of the shop. Outside, not a single soul could be seen. Everything breathed in the silence of the night, eerie and ghostly and abandoned. For a second, he got the strange feeling that he was all alone, or rather that time itself had stopped. There were no clouds above, yet neither were there any stars—despite the clear night-sky. He supposed it had something to do with light pollution, or at least he hoped so.

But the enchantment of the silence broke when a quiet purr accompanied the feeling of warm fur against his naked calves. _Right. The cat._ It made him smile, and he suddenly didn't feel as lonely anymore. With this newfound determination he puffed his chest, clenched his fists, and strode across the street and right through the looming, swaying gates of the cemetery. The second he set foot on the burial grounds, something churned and twisted in his guts. Every bone, every muscle in his body told him to bolt in the opposite direction—but his feet stubbornly strode onwards, as though in a trance.

He walked and walked among the cold, marbled memorials. For each step he took and each landmark he passed he though about it being possibly the dumbest thing he's ever done, and the list of dumb shit Lance has done it long enough to publish.

As he wanders aimlessly, and the shivers grow heavier, and his eyelids begin to droop, he finally decides that perhaps this is all a waste of time. Perhaps he should turn back and go to bed before his gran finds out he went out in the dead middle of the night. He steels his mind and is about to turn when the gleam of a light in the distance, through the thick fog, catches his eyes. Its glow a low yellow in the darkness, so faint you'd miss it entirely if you weren't looking at that specific spot in the void before you. The streetlamps on the main path did little to aid in comprehending what it was, so he marched onwards, now with a goal in sight.

The black cat from before strode on next to him, as quiet as the night and just as black as the expanse above their heads. He smiled nervously to himself as he got closer and closer to the faint, now flickering glow. Candlelight he concluded when he saw the looming shadow of the chapel. When Lance first saw it on one of his many walks through and around the place he complained about it to Pidge _("It's not a cemetery if there's a church in it!", "Well, it's a chapel, not a churh.")_. He hadn't thought much about it before, but now—standing barely a few blocks away from the haunting building—he couldn't find it in himself to care about whether the very haunted and very real burial grounds he stood on counted as a cemetery or a graveyard in the chapel's ghostly presence.

"Curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back, right?" he whispered into the night, half speaking to the fuzzy animal by his feet.

The feline held its steady gaze on him, but otherwise didn't respond. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, yawned—even—when a faint hum caught his attention. It seemed to be coming from all around him. Eerie and faint, it echoed between the shadows of gravestones, and suddenly he felt completely alone. He chanced a glance down at the cat for some comfort, only to find it gone.

Ice coursed through his veins as the realization finally settled that he was out, all alone, in the dead of night, in a haunted cemetery, with nothing to protect himself. And now, from somewhere nearby, came the low, distorted hum of _something. _It was coming closer and closer, and the growing panic in his chest made his lungs and heart ache. He could hear the rush of blood in his ears mingle with the inhuman hum before it suddenly, and abruptly, stopped.

He stood stock still and waited, felt the dampness of sweat on his cold palms, and then he heard it. Faint, so faint, yet right by his ears—a raspy whisper.

"_You're standing on me."_

In a second, clarity broke through the barrier in his mind, and his body rushed into action. A horrendous, high screech leaves his lungs as his body is flung forwards, right towards the flickering lights in the chapel. His legs ache with strain, and the rush of blood in his ears is so deafening that he almost doesn't hear it at first.

Footsteps.

Heavy and fast, right on his heels, coupled with sickly, heaving intakes of breath. He doesn't dare to look back, only keeps running. Can feel the something breathing down his neck, making the fine hairs stand on end. His skin feels prickly and cold, yet the droplets running down the bridge of his nose tell him he's sweating.

Then, a second pair of footsteps join, and all of a sudden, he hears it. The shrilling, deafening sound of shrieking coming from somewhere among the memorials. Perhaps from the _Dead Woods._

Every heave of his chest is painful. Every breath ragged. With a desperate finality he lunges forwards and yanks open the door of the chapel before rushing inside. He closes it harshly behind himself and leans against it when the heavy 'thud' of something knocking into it rings through the space inside.

He breathes.

The shrieking outside continues, but inside there is nothing but the flicker of candlelight. Yellow candles litter the entire space, lighting up the old building. Did Keith leave them on?

The inside of the chapel is much less interesting. Books and objects lie on the stone floor, thrown about. Five lines of benches of each side of the path leading up to a small speaking booth are the only furniture in the building. On the other end, on the far right of the booth, is a small opening. A wooden door stands open, leading down to complete darkness.

He wills his heartrate to drop to something resembling healthy before even trying to move from his place against the door. He locks and barricades what can be locked and barricaded before turning back to the threatening opening. His heart is thumping heavily with terror at the prospect of having to get close to it to close the door.

At the opening, however, he spots the same black cat. Its eyes are once again locked on him before it turns and disappears into the void. The faint patter of its paws hitting the cold stone echoes for a moment before disappearing. _What should he do? _Everything in him was telling him to run, but the threatening shrieking of whatever was out there remained where he'd left it, and he feared that the thing that whispered to him was still right outside the door—waiting for him. Perhaps the cat's instincts should be followed. Perhaps that's why it disappeared. Perhaps it knew to hide in time.

So, he follows.

Shakily he picks up one of the many candles and holds it firmly in both hands before walking up to the opening. Down below is nothing but darkness, and the further he descends the smaller his view. If something were to sneak up on him, he wouldn't notice it before it stood right in front of him. But the brush of warmth on his legs, as much as it gave him cardiac arrest every time, he felt it, calmed something within him. He wasn't alone in there, and the cat's constant closeness made him think that it was trying to comfort him.

So, he walked on. He turned a few times to get a feeling of how far he'd come but found that he could no longer see the top of the stair—couldn't even see a glimmer of light from the opening above. A chilling thought came into his mind that he was perhaps descending to hell, or some hellish dimension.

Then, amidst the growing panic, came that same hum again. His whole body went stiff with shock as pain shot down his spine so violently he felt like vomiting. _They were back._ He thought, but when he regained focus, he realized that he now knew where the humming was coming from; below.

The warmth at his feet was gone, and even though everything felt like he was living the plot of one of his night terrors, the very real sensation of his still burning palms brought him back to the ugly reality every time; it was very real.

Whatever he had imagined finding down there, it had not been Keith.

Through the small opening which lacks a door, he peeked into the dim lit room—his candle now dead to keep him hidden.

On the floor in front of him, with his back to Lance, sat Keith with his legs crossed and his arms folded in his lap. In Each hand he held a candle, the only light source in the bare room, and on the floor around him was an intricately drawn pentagram—painted in white on the dusty cobble-floor.

Keith was humming a melody. A very low, eerie song much like the many nursery rhymes he's heard in his childhood. Except this one was everything but happy and childish. It was a heavy, ghostly melody laden with grief.

He clenched and unclenched his fists where they shook by his sides and tried his hardest to not let his horrified breathing give away his presence. Whatever he'd seen in Keith, that darkness which fell at night, was very much real. He'd known all along, had felt it all along, yet to see it before him made his teeth rattle in his mouth and his eyes sting with tears of fright.

He was about to turn, to walk back to the safety of his home and never return—to forget Keith forever—but as he turned, he stepped on something soft and rounded and yelped when it screeched violently in response. The damned cat was back.

It was over, he thought, as the humming abruptly stopped and heavy darkness enveloped him. His body went limb, and he heard rather than felt the loud thud as he hit the floor.

They would never find him.


	3. the Hunter and the Prey

_My hair is so silken soft, golden and vibrant; accentuated by the flush on youthful cheeks. Every turn of a corner sends the tail of my braid flying in the wind. It swings to and fro behind me, bright under the sinking sun, and with every swift swish it catches the light just so. The crow in my hands croaks a gurgled whine, its breaths ragged and pained, and I speed up as best as I can. In the distance I spot a speck of warm light breaking through the drooping, growing darkness around. But no matter how fast my skinny legs carry me, or how many turns send my braid flying behind me, the warm light between the trees never comes closer. Still, I run. I run and plead, believe with all there is in what my father once told me._

_If there's life, it's never too late. _

_October 4__th__, 2017_

_Somewhere_

…

A shooting pain in his head wakes him. As he opens his eyes, the first thought which comes flooding his brain is the feeling of pressure on his chest. The second thought is the blooming pain in his knees and ribs. And the third thought is a crashing recollection of everything that happened last night. The rough, dusty sheets on his limp body is proof enough that he is, by all accounts, very much still alive.

He took a deep breath and looked down at his chest—though the movement sent burst of pain through his head—and found that nestled on his chest lay the cat from… last night? Earlier? He couldn't tell what time it was. The room he lay in was dimly lit by a handful of thick candles. By briefly casting his gaze around the space he could conclude that there were no windows, only a lone door to the right of the bed he lay on. It was crammed between the wall and a large bookshelf bristling with hardcover titles, most of which were so dusty and worn that the text on the spines was unintelligible. They were so tightly shoved together that no visible space remained between them. On the floor below his feet were various Turkish carpets, all in a million colors, though equally as worn as everything else the room had to offer. Left of the door he spotted a wooden desk littered with things; books, pens, papers, candles, boxes, glass bottles, pots and other—strange—nick-knacks. Every corner, every space in the room was filled with _something. _Shelves covered the walls, all barely holding up the disorganized chaos. Where there were no shelves or furniture, posters and pinboards and pictures were plastered. Most were incredibly old, chipped at the corners, and the various clipboards were filled with all sorts of things: newspaper-cutouts, pages of various occult websites and post-it notes on which delicate, hasty writing he could just barely catch a glimpse of in the blur. Something stuck out to him; everything was somehow related to the occult. His brief read of the titles big enough for his tired eyes to make out were all related to magic, sorcery and fantasy. Horoscopes, potion recipes…

But his attention was once against brought back to the cat still on his chest who was blinking awake, annoyed at him for disrupting its peaceful slumber. Only then did he get a proper look at it. What he'd thought had been black fur was in fact a rich, dark violet, and when it opened its eyes, he noted that they were no longer bright yellow—but blue. Two coral irises swam in a sea of a very dull yellow, intently locked on him. _Observing him. _Something about it made the hairs on his arms and neck stand on end. It felt strangely… human. He felt watched under its gaze, as if it fully understood his every expression.

"H-hey there buddy…" he whispered to the feline and shakily stretched out his hand towards it. This time, it didn't move away.

"Wanna maybe get off me so I can figure out where I am?" he asked, still in a hushed tone.

_Who knows, after all? Maybe he'd been captured._

The feline looked at him for a moment longer before standing, stretching and hopping off Lance's pained abdomen. He winced but felt he could finally breathe in fully and thus relaxed. The now violet, strange cat sat down a way from the bed and continued its observation. Eerily still. He watched it for a second, then made to get up.

Shakily, and in a lot of pain, he managed to sit up. He gingerly felt at his own aching ribs on his left side and concluded that they were just terribly bruised. A swift lift of his shirt confirmed his theory. The sun kissed skin below was badly darkened along his left side. A blossoming bruise in all shades of the evening sky was painting his delicate skin in ugly roughness.

"Shit." He cursed to himself before lifting his fingers to poke at the bulge on his forehead.

He must have hit his head when he fell, though his wrists and ribs took most of the impact, it seemed, for they were throbbing almost as terribly as his head. He sighed and rubbed his face harshly, with no remorse to his sensitive skin. He couldn't find it in himself to care. Not even panic.

Whoever had left him here was not keeping him hostage, he concluded. If he'd been a hostage, surely, he'd been more restrained than this. He got up slowly, grunting and wincing as he did, and walked over to the wooden door, tried the handle—yanked and pushed—but the stupid thing wouldn't budge. Perhaps he was being held hostage then, after all. He couldn't seem to care. Too exhausted to even try to find an alternative, an escape route. No matter how hard he thought, his brain wouldn't let him filter out the pain, not even for a second, so his thoughts remained foggy.

Then, from behind him, the light flickered. A shadow cast its rough shapes on the wall right next to him, flickering with the animated candlelight. It was in the silhouette of a man, tall and broad.

His heartrate kicked into overdrive in a second, and his first instinct was to grab the envelope-opener on the table. He turned and pointed it threateningly towards the intruder, only to stop dead in his tracks.

"Woah, woah! Easy there." The man pleaded, his hands moving in up and down motions in front of him, urging Lance to put down the weapon.

_Lotor. _

"I'm not going to hurt you." He continued, a weak and twitchy smile on his lips.

His eyes traced over Lance's—presumably—blank expression, and in that moment, he finally understood the unease he'd felt before.

He knew those eyes. Those very _human _eyes. Or at least he'd once thought they were human.

"I know this all might seem strange to you—"

He scoffed and lowered the weapon, arms going limp, "Yeah, no shit! First a somewhat-sentient cat leads me out into the cemetery in the dead of night, then I'm chased around the lot by fucking ghosts or whatever _that _was—" He points swiftly towards the door behind him, "I discover that Keith is a freaking Satanist or something, and now I find out that my best friend's boyfriend is a goddamn cat!" he shouted, all previous nervousness gone in his fury. He could feel the stiffness in his muscles as they ached and begged for him to relax.

He was confused and scared and angry and in _such _pain. Curse him if he felt like showing his displeasure with his current predicament. Lotor seemed to have expected such a reaction, for he only watched him as he flailed about in anger, now pacing back and forth in the small space.

He sighed, "Lance, I know this is all very confusing, but I need you to listen to what I have to say." His expression was pinched and worrisome as he spoke, "I need your help." He said.

At this, Lance stopped and turned towards the distressed… _man?_ _Could he be called a man? Was he human at all?_ Perhaps it was about time he asked some questions.

"First of all," he said, a middle finger poking at the taller man's chest insistently, brows furrowed, "You," poke, "Need to tell me," poke, "what", poke, "The fuck," poke, "You," poke, "Are—"

He yelped in surprise as his finger was forcefully grabbed, _hard, _and his wrist twisted to the side with the action in a very aggressive manner. Something cracked rather audibly.

"Ouch, ouch, ouch! I yield, I yield!" he shrieked.

Lotor let go with a huff of annoyance and ran a hand through long, silver hair, ruffling it in the process before turning and sitting down on the bed. As he did, a small cloud of dust puffed up. Lance tried not to dwell on what sleeping in _that _must have done to his skin and tried even harder not to think about the things he'd probably shared said bed with. This room must have stood vacant for a long time.

"You can't tell Allura." He whispered, dejected, "She'll hate me if you do."

Lance looked at him, _really _looked at him. His expression was sour, twisted into something painful at the mere prospect of losing Allura. What it was he wasn't supposed to tell her or why said thing would make her hate him he didn't know. He softened his expression—albeit somewhat reluctantly—and sat down next to the guy, tilted his head down so he could get a proper look at his face through the thick curtain of his white hair. It was long and fell past firm shoulders and down on the mattress they sat on. His long, dark fingers were twisting around each other nervously, perhaps even in frustration, and his long limbs were as stiff as the cobble below their feet. He could tell that this whole situation was weighing heavily on Lotor. That this—whatever it was—would cause him horrible consequences, consequences he was willing to bare for some higher purpose. A purpose Lance didn't yet understand.

"Why would she hate you?" he tried, gently. _Or, _he _thought _it sounded gentle enough.

Lotor remained quiet for a long while, not moving an inch, before finally willing his mind and mouth to work.

"I'm not who you think I am, Lance." He started, "I know you and me have never liked each other much, and I'm frankly not very interested in getting to know you now or ever," Lance gasped offendedly, and was about to retort, but Lotor simply shot him a look that read 'I know you agree' and continued:

"I'm…" he tried but trailed off. He was picking his words with utmost care, terrified of scaring Lance away perhaps. He steeled himself for whatever Lotor would throw his way. But what then? What if it was something unacceptable? What if Lotor liked keeping people locked in this basement or something? He could have simply been hiding in some corner Lance's eyes merely skimmed over earlier.

He feared there was something else at play here, no, _knew _there was but refused to acknowledge it. Was _terrified _of acknowledging it.

"I guess you could say I'm… magical…" he began, now with his eyes set on the corner of the table in front of them. His hands had stopped mid air where they'd been flailing around second before, desperately trying to draw 'magical' to a dumbfounded Lance.

He hacked out an awkward laugh, "Ha. Yeah, Allura told me."

"…What?"

"You know… magical… as in…_Forget_ it!"

Casting his head down in shame he ignored the confused noise Lotor made, an aborted sentence. Whatever his confession was, it seemed to be a top priority.

"Anyhow…" he said, somewhat hesitantly, squinting Lance's way for a moment before choosing to ignore his awkwardness, "When I say magical, I mean literally. But maybe it's best to just show you…"

He hummed in thought for a moment as he surveyed the room they occupied. Lance was expecting him to pull out a coin from behind his ear or show him a card trick, but Lotor didn't pull out a deck. Nor did he reach for Lance's ear. He was reaching for a candle on the bedside table.

Gently, with such care, his hand hovered over the flame, and as it got close the flame from the blackened wick slowly, so slowly lifted until it was swaying a way just above the candle. The black wick, now robbed of its light, simply remained as it was as Lotor's hand left the flame and his body turned back towards lance.

And there, right above his palm, causing no pain or even touching the skin, was the flickering flame; picked right off the bedside candle.

He gawked at the display, jaw slack with shock. Perhaps the dust was disrupting his vision. Perhaps he'd hit his head too hard earlier. Perhaps this was all a hallucination. He pinched himself, rubbed his eyes, tilted his head this and that way, and even tried to shake himself out of his self-diagnosed psychosis. Nothing worked. The flame hovering over Lotor's outstretched hand remained as it was, flickering with no disturbance like a scorching sun over dark sand. He stared at the creases in Lotor's palm, at the length of his fingers and the stillness of his hand and tried in desperation to figure out a way he could have accomplished it without the use of 'magic'. Still, nothing came to mind.

Lotor laughed, "You seem surprised. A given, I suppose." He chuckled, his accent rich with every word and his smirk growing wider the longer Lance's silence persisted.

He'd always hated Lotor for being so snarky and full of himself, for thinking he's some sort of established royalty expected to be serviced at every nod of his head and snap of his fingers. Still, sometimes—only sometimes—he glimpsed whatever it was that Allura had seen in him. It was a very unexplainable trait, there just below the surface and yet not there at all. One could assume that his arrogance had to do with it; casting it in shadow.

Now, as he sat there smirking at Lance's stupor and seemed entirely out of himself with childlike giddiness, he finally understood. Well, he _sort of _understood. It was clear as day that his good opinions of Lotor were clouded with biases. He was—and there was no doubt about that—unfairly attractive. Still, nothing in the world compared to the dusk of day swirling around in a lake of ivory.

As though summoned by his thoughts, the heavy door flung open, and into the room stormed the aforementioned beauty.

_Furious._

"Why didn't you tell me he was awake." He bit out; jaw set so tightly Lance could barely see it move as he spoke. His question sounded more like a statement, clenched out through very thinly pressed lips.

Lotor fumbled next to him for a second, before regaining his full senses. He stood up quickly and steeled his tall frame against Keith, who was at least two heads shorter.

Still, despite his size, he _towered _over him. Threatening. Downright _feral._ Lotor sighed in retreat and relaxed his posture, though his eyes remained steeled on Keith's, "I wanted to ease him into it."

"_Ease him into it?_ Ease him into what? Thrift-shopping?" he asked, sarcasm like venom on his tongue, "Do you realize what we're dealing with here? Either I kill him this second or we make damn sure he never speaks a fucking word of this to anyone and then dump him in the fucking woods."

Lance gulped from his frozen position on the bed between the two of them.

"Keith, there's no way I'm killing Allura's best friend. You have no idea how often she talks about him. I'd die if I'd have to witness the grief she would suffer." He tried to defend the terrified boy sitting idly between them, observing. Lotor was growing all the more aggressive. As he spoke—no, yelled—Lance caught a glimpse of fine, sharp canines.

"And, besides, what better way to make sure he doesn't run his mouth other than to show him what we're capable of?" he asked, "I think he got a phenomenal scare from you in the first place. I don't think more than a firm _don't _is needed." He argued, as though Lance wasn't _right there_, arms crossed over his chest. Sometimes he really did seem like a royalty, or perhaps a highly ranked Politian. _A president? _

Keith didn't respond, only stood and stared for a second, jaw set, before dropping his gaze directly on Lance, who flinched in response. He tried to speak, but his clogged throat wouldn't let him form coherent sentences, so he cleared it twice with a clenched fist awkwardly pressed to his mouth before speaking up for himself:

"I don't know what all this is about, or why or how you did that—" he glanced at Lotor, who had his eyes set on him as well, "—but I don't think this is something for me to meddle with anyways, so you don't have to worry. I won't tell a soul." He mimed zipping his mouth shut, turning the key and throwing it inside his shirt. He put a palm over his heart, "I'll keep it nice and safe until the day comes when you have to tend to _my _grave."

He was expecting a punch, or a lash-out. Anything other than sudden laughter. Maniacal.

"_You?_ Keeping a secret? Not meddling?" he wheezed, eyes wide in mock shock, "You couldn't keep your hands off me for _weeks _because you think I'm hot stuff. What's gonna happen now that you've seen what you've seen? I even warned you not to meddle, to walk and forget, yet you came back anyways and nosed around in places where you don't belong!" he yelled; all laughter drained from his expression, now sour again. If emotions had sound effects, this one would be the world's greatest thunderstorm. And boy was it roaring in his ears, bolts of lightning striking in those swirling lavender fields right in front of him, mere inches from his face now.

"How do I know you won't waltz out of here, go over to your—" he cast a nasty glare Lotor's way, "—'best friend' and spill everything? How do I know police officers with loaded pistols and too-much ammunition won't be standing outside the chapel come tomorrow?" he finished.

Lance's ears were ringing viciously by the end of it. The throbbing in his brain did little to aid him in surviving, so he gave up trying. His throat clogged, and he felt the tell-tale prickle of tears threatening to fall behind his eyelids. His breathing, ragged and quick, wasn't fast enough. There was suddenly no air in the room. _Were the walls closing in on them?_ He couldn't tell, didn't dwell, just focused on the now and here. Tried his best to regulate his erratic breathing but to no avail.

_Forget it. They're not here anymore. Stop being a crybaby! _

He cast down his gaze; at loss for words. What did he have to say to that? Keith didn't know him, didn't trust him, and his actions thus far were certainly not working in his favor. The graveyard boy looked about ready to say something more the second he looked up, but Lance interrupted him with a very weak, very choked:

"At least tell my grandmother that I love her and that I'm very sorry."

His eyes were stinging with unshed tears, and he felt his lower lip wobble at the mere prospect of uttering those words, but he steeled himself; wouldn't let them see his heartache. His absolute panic.

Their eyes met amidst it, like he was challenging himself on purpose. Seeking a final kick out of the fiasco that was his life. But in that moment, as their eyes met, something inside his captor broke loose just a fraction. It was decimal; so subtle it was barely noticeable, but Lance noticed. He saw it there, behind the strikes of lightning and the roaring of thunder on those lavender fields: something warm, something soft, something which smelled of fresh rain on the most beautiful, most wonderfully scented flowers.

Something within Keith understood those words, understood what was hidden behind his quivering lip.

_Sympathy. _

He sighed and ran a hand through very dark and rain-frizzy locks, much the same way Lotor had done earlier. It echoed a very long, very strong and very strange bond between the two. Then, with finality, his shoulders slumped, his arms fell limply to his sides, and his face—tilted up towards the low-hanging ceiling—fell into a complete blankness.

"_Christ." _He muttered, perhaps louder than he'd gone for initially, then spoke to the nothing above, "I can't kill you."

It had been directed at Lance, that much was clear, but he still couldn't believe his ears.

"What."

"You heard me. I'll spare your life and risk my own in the process." He grumbled, eyes back on the squirming Cuban on the edge of the dusty bed, "Because I'm _that _bright." He half-heartedly scolded himself.

"You'll… spare me?" Lance repeated, stunned. His throat dry and throbbing with the pain of choked back tears.

"Yes…? Do you not want me to?"

"What—NO! No! I want you to, I do!" he stammered quickly, arms flailing about in front of him, "But I thought… you'd use me for one of your sacrifices or something…"

"Sacrifices?" came Keith's confused reply. Next to him, Lotor chuckled, and Lance couldn't help but feel like he was missing something important.

Then, suddenly, Keith turned and slammed the door shut behind him before turning back to the two of them and looking swiftly from side to side—as though confirming they were truly alone—before putting his hands on his hips and sighing for the trillionth time.

"What exactly do you think I am?" he asked so calmly Lance felt the urge to check his temperature. He didn't, of course, since he had an inkling that such an action would have him lose his hand and ear at the very least. He also didn't think his legs would be able to support his shaken body.

"Well…" he began, choosing his words carefully under Keith's burning stare, "Like, a Satanist, or something…?" he tried, anxiously, hands fiddling with each other where they lay in his lap restlessly.

Keith scoffed, shook his head, and rose his eyebrows in absolute bafflement. Lotor continued his not-so-quiet, quiet laughing fit.

"A _Satanist?!" _

"Well, can you blame me?!"

"Are you insane or just dumb?!"

"_How should I know what the fuck __that __was?!" _he shrieked, "You scared the crap out of me!"

He stopped and dragged a hand down his stupid, handsome face before addressing Lotor, dejectedly:

"Why did you drag this to my front porch?" he asked.

Lotor didn't reply, only shrugged and smirked victoriously.

Keith turned back towards Lance, pulled out a chair from his desk and sat on it the wrong way—leaning on his arms on the back of the chair right in front of Lance—and began his story in the flickering candlelight.

_Many, many eons ag, on Earth lived all species in harmony. Half of them were humanoid to the appearance but lacked much of what made humans what they are. They'd have fur or fans or wings. Some were tall and menacing, others were short and mischievous. Some thrived on the essences of land, some of those of water._

_One of these were given the human name "ghouls" for their ghostly appearance. They had long limbs, dark hair and eyes, and two sharp fangs which often protruded from their red-rimmed lips. They became known for their vicious, bloodthirsty nature—incapable of controlling their inhuman desire for blood. _

_They ate away at anything living, more often than not humans, for their flesh and blood is sweet and just the right amount of salty. They were a delicacy and an easy prey. Defenseless, stupid, naïve little humans didn't understand what was going on until it was too late. Until half of them had been wiped out. What remained in the debris of the chaos that was the "Nigh Hunt" thousands of years ago, where millions were slayed and drained of blood, decided that ghouls—along with all humanoid siblings to humans—were to be exterminated. _

_To accomplish this, a very old fellow from a village down south, living by the river and known for his…peculiar…nature, offered his helping hand. He came to a very large meeting held by the council of the time, slammed a very heavy book down on the tabled at which they sat, and firmly insisted that he had the solution to their problems. What he started back then was human magic wielding. It had been unthinkable, unattainable to humans before, but it appeared the old man had discovered something found only in a selective group of humans which hinted at the possibility of magic-wielding. He proudly stated that his research told him every 1 in 100 humans were born with this blessed something. It simply just laid dormant and had to be awakened._

_And thus, the first sorcerer was born, and his name was Claus Bastian, and from his roots sprouted a tree of life in which generation after generation became stronger than the last until the process of awakening was no longer a necessity. _

_This is where it all began._

_Of course, ghouls at the time weren't happy about this sudden increase in very powerful humans and set out on an age-old mission of killing them all. It wasn't very successful. Wars upon wars were fought over every trivial and non-trivial thing. It was a rivalry that stretched itself over centuries and never seemed to reach a climax or an end. Humans and ghouls despised each other. _

_My story has its beginnings some 300 years ago, right here. I was young at the time, barely through puberty in human years, and was amidst one of the wildest and most gruesome wars ever fought between the civilizations in the world of the Undying. _

_At this point, sorcerers and humans were no longer related to the other. While they were still much alike, the two groups had long since separated. Humans, _mortals, _were no longer a part of our world. They were humans of the mortal realm, of the Betweenlands, and with this change came a holy pledge amongst the creatures in the world of the Undying. This pledge, this sacred vow, was signed by all nations and later named the "Signing of Adversaries". The great hall in the heart of underworld was packed to the brim with all nations of the world of the Undying, enemies like friends. Everyone shook hands and respected each other for hours of the day. _

_It was decided that no contact with mortals was ever to be made unless they were hunted as prey. In such instances, the hunter in question would pledge to always use his inborn abilities, his power and might, to see to it that the human world would never know of the underworld. It became strictly forbidden, and any contact with humans was generally considered taboo. _

_The reason for this separation was simple; humans were stupid, fragile and naïve. One wrong move, one wrong word—and the underworld would crash and burn much like the targeted ghouls did when a new wave of humans first attacked thousands of years ago. _

_But, it didn't end there. _

_Their differences—ghouls' and sorcerers'—were too great for either party to ignore. They hated each other's guts. By all means wanted the other dead and wiped off the face of this Earth. But one sorcerer took it too far. He broke the sacred vow and contacted a human for their powerful essence, for their help. His goal was to create a lethal weapon against all ghouls. It was to become the most powerful weapon of mass destruction the underworld had ever seen, and it rightfully earned itself the name "Charlie's Curse", after the little girl whose foolishness cost millions their lives. Charlie was never meant to release this, and certainly not on the wrong side, but as with every time someone meddles with humans—the mad sorcerer's great plans went astray. _

_Tiptoeing through her cabin where she lived, while her parents—as much culprits as her—were soundly asleep, she found the slumbering sorcerer, still clutching to the paper on which the chant had been scribbled in haste. She took it from his hands, locked herself in her room, and chanted it as best she could right out the window and into the night outside. Of course, nothing happened. Not to her. But on our side of the story, where I was fighting ghouls, tooth and nail; scrabbling to remain alive, I watched as my people fell, one by one, and disintegrated into nothing before my eyes. Not all of them did, but so many that the war seemed impossible to win. _

_Still, I fought side by side with my friend, until he, too, disappeared the second I looked away. _

_I felt powerless then and I feel powerless now. The only ones not affected by Charlie's Curse were Ancients, a selective few youths, and half-bloods like me. _

_I suppose I was lucky; half sorcerer, half ghoul. Impossible to break, too powerful to beat. _

_Still, I felt powerless, and ever since I've been looking and looking; trying to find what I once lost. _

_All through the means of necromancy._

_And so, I've broken the only other sacred vow the folks of the underworld ever swore: never to use black magic._


End file.
